


longer

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25718041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “I might have a contract for you, witcher. Rather easy, I would say”“What you will have me to do?”“What we want, witcher. We will do what we want”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Other(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56
Collections: Anonymous





	longer

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the cute anons at Dreamwidth kink!meme and my boss who says that my English sucks.
> 
> Dear anons, you are a blessing to this shit we call Internet.
> 
> Dear boss, see I do my language practice.
> 
> PS: English is not my first language, so I am sorry for everything=)

When Geralt reminisces the whole thing he thinks that it was his fault, just one more to add. He should have been the wise one, the experienced one, the stronger one, but when was he what he should have been? This autumn was especially hard for them – early colds, gods’ will or may be some wicked curse brought exceptionally poor harvest, the villages usually so full of life and laugh stood sad and silent. No harvest meant no money, and no money meant no contracts, he could recall the last one, when he had to dispatch the nest of drowners for only fourth of what he usually got. Jaskier still sang his songs in taverns and inns, which however brought him only a few crowns if he was lucky. But more often than not they were not even allowed there, as everyone knew that witchers and other vile creatures were the ones to blame for hunger.

_“What a pleasant day, my good sir!” Jaskier’s smile is as bright as always, he smiles easily and for everyone, even for the grim man at the counter, whose eyes switch from bard to the cloaked figure behind his back._

_“I am sure that your most respectable guests would be pleased to pass a nice evening in a company of the renown bard and his legendary companion!”_

_The man looks at him skeptically. “I don’t think that people are eager for some ballads nowadays, we have a spare room, which you apparently ask for...but only for you, he must go.”_

_“Bollocks! My companion –”_

_The innkeeper interrupts him “Spare me your songs, bard. We don’t need more unluck here, you can stay, the beast can’t.”_

_“But...”_

_“Leave it, Jaskier”_

No, it was him, who was not allowed in, Jaskier could have easily found himself food and shelter and a warm body to sleep nearby. Could have, expect he did not, sticking to the witcher like a thistle. Days pass and Geralt noticed deepening dark circles and drained eyes, Jaskier’s strong form thinning, the shoulders rounding from the weight of his lute. Every time they neared some civilization Geralt swore to dump him there, to force him to stay away from his increasingly dangerous company. For some time Geralt has been feeling more like a target than protection, so the bard must stay away. It would be better he thinks, it would keep him safe. The autumn is early and harsh and the sky is lead and everything around them already miss the sun, recalling its warmth and light, mourning the lack of it. And Geralt just does not want to let go of his sun.

_It would be so empty and cold, just a little longer, just a little longer…_

It is their next destination and they are not allowed inside the city walls, Geralt silently grabs Jaskier and turns back to the guards who spit and shout at his direction

“Freak!”

“They should burn your kind down!”

“Get the fuck of here dirty fucker!”

He does not turn his head to the insults and keeps going with his arm firmly on Jaskier’s shoulder, just in case the guards decide that stones can hit heavier than words.

Jaskier is uncharacteristically silent beside him, may be too exhausted, may be wise enough to understand the pointlessness of further attempts to persuade the mob that the mutant by his side means no harm. Famine makes people honest. And angry.

So they pass another town, still the two of them.

Geralt decides to move south, the rumor has it that those lands have not suffered that much and maybe they will be lucky enough to have a job, coin and some rest. They should reach the city of Prizren in a few days, which Geralt has not visited for a long time. At best there will be some job for him, at worst…they will part there and Geralt will drag himself back north to Kaer Morhen.

In the dusk they run against the burnt caravan on the edge of the forest. Several corpses, probably a trader and his fellow travelers, lack limbs and eyes. Wolfes and crows, he thinks, a scanty harvest draws beasts from the wild closer to the people. As he looks at the grim scene, Geralt’s enhanced eyes catch the arrow sticking from the woman’s back.

Not only beasts.

“Seems like a merchant for me, leather, silk, cloth…” says Jaskier looking into the damped wagon. “What the fuck?” They...did not take anything? The goods leather and all… are intact…”

Geralt stares at the dim road ahead of them and feels tingy uneasiness.

“If you ask me, I thought it was a plunder, but they did not take a thing, looks a bit unsetting, don’t you think?”

Jaskier stops his inspection and comes to stand a bit closer to Geralt than usual, his eyes nervously tracing the vague path ahead of them. His smell seeps through the death stench, it is cedar and citrus, which Geralt will recognize everywhere, a thick layer of sweet, since they have not had the chance to bath properly for ages, and acrid notes of agitation and nervousness, the sprouts of fear.

They should turn back, but where? They should make a camp somewhere deeper in the forest _–_ Geralt looks at the impassable windfall. He should have made Jaskier stay in the city and overnight somewhere outside of its walls, they would go on come morning.

He should have left the bard in some warm place and start his way to fucking Kaer Morhen. He wants too much and he fails, and he feels that he is going to fail again.

Instead of answering Jaskier’s question he moves ahead.

“We should go”

They go and a few meters further he notes one more body with an arrow sticking from his chest. A young man, his corpse is strangely in one piece, as if the beasts avoided it. He lies on his back with the pale hand near the arrow. The man’s chemise is strikingly white, only a small pool of blood around the stick. He looks alive, simply lying there and looking at the dark sky. It is only his imagination, his mind conjuring things, but the dead man’s eyes dimly appear to be blue.

“Come here”

Geralt pulls at Jaskier’s arm until he walks between him and Roach. It is deadly quiet and dark, his yellow eyes useful enough only to trace the nearest stones and roots, no further. He relies on his ears and smells, calculating his tactics if anything happens. It would be easier were he alone, he probably would not even care, but with Jaskier…

His mind returns to the dead blue eyes.

They walk in silence as the light wind blows at his face and his instincts go on alert. He does not see anything, but he smells something alien. Aside of Jaskier’s smell, Roach and the forest he catches something else, oil and sweet and…

“Jaskier, down!!!”

Jaskier does not even have a chance to make a noise, as Geralt brings them both on the ground, covering the bard’s body with his own. He gets his sword when the first arrow hiss somewhere nearby and Roach abruptly rears up with a loud neigh.

“Geralt, Roach! They hit Roach!”

“Fuck… Run! Now!”

He roughly pulls Jaskier to the forest and shoves him somewhere to the wind slash near the broken tree. More arrows hiss through the forest, and he prays that none of them is intended for the bard. He must find them first.

He catches the whips of alien smell to the left of him and hears another arrow flying at his direction, he catches it with his hand, as another one hits his shoulder. He plucks it harshly and throws it away, at least they concentrate on him. He charges forward to the direction of the arrow and finally sees the dark silhouette, which tries to ran. Geralt grins baring his teeth and overtake him in a second. One less.

Another one, a bit further. Here in the thick darkness of the forest they are blind and he will hunt them down. Another arrow flies from the right, they miss a meter or two. He silently moves to the smell and movement and life and sees a figure with a bow.

“We lost the mothefucker! Where is he? Do you see him?!”

The figure is afraid, afraid enough to break the silence, it reeks with fear. Geralt silently charges with his sword, impaling the man on its blade and keeping his hand on the man’s mouth. Probably one more.

“Pietro? Did you get the second bastard? Pietro!!”

_So there went Pietro…_

It is easy to find the last one. Geralt does not even hides when he strides to the ambusher and brings the blade to his chest. When the rattle stops there is nothing. He does not waste a second to even look at the dead man, he does not care who it was.

_the second bastard...Jaskier…_

“Jaskier!”

No one answers and Geralt feels something cold creeping up his spine. He goes closer to the road, desperately peering into the dark mess of the forest around him.

“Jaskier!!”

If something happens to the bard, he would not be able to forgive himself. Around him there is only silence and Geralt’s mind goes back to the ambushed caravan. To the man and the arrow piercing his chest.

“Geralt…”

It is weak, but it is enough, Geralt rushes to his voice and smell, cedar and…blood.

The bard sits awkwardly with his right side propped on broken fir tree, his hand gripping the bloody thigh. He raises his eyes on Geralt and smiles crookedly.

“Nice to see you too…”

Geralt drops on one knee and pries Jaskier’s hand away. The wound looks painful but at least the idiot is alive.

“Had to pluck it…” Jaskier looks at him with the bright eyes still smiling awkwardly. In a moment his eyes move to the side.

“Geralt, your shoulder, are you…”

“Later.”

Later comes in a few hours when they can make a shitty camp, eat something and finally examine the damage. Geralt hardly feels any pain in his shoulder, it must have started to stitch itself already. Roach is tiredly nipping some grass, not minding the gash at her upper leg which Geralt cleaned a bit. He brushes her mane gratefully trying to get rid of the odious feeling that the shit is far from over, as if he missed something important…

“Roach is a real hero, is not she? If not her one of us would suffer one or two holes more, what a nice brave girl, I shall dedicate a song to your horse, Geralt”

Jaskier sits on the ground, chewing on the apple. He is already prepared to turn in, tired enough not to touch his notes and tired too much to simply fall asleep. They tended their wounds, Jaskier’s one is covered with the remains of the balm and wrapped into linens which previously were one of Geralt’s shirts. They could not allow simple bandages, and now, Geralt muses vexedly, they have no money left at all. Jaskier’s lute sounds wrong as he can’t replace the string, he hardly plays it for his pleasure as his sensitive ears can’t stand the imperfection. Their clothes have seen better times and it is getting colder and they need, no Jaskier needs, something warmer _._ Jaskier needs something far warmer, far better than he has with him. He should thrive at some court, sing, compose and be happy, instead he sits on the cold muddy ground with the hole from the arrow in his leg and a witcher who failed to recognize the risk.

He is pulled from his thoughts by the snowflakes gently sinking on his face. It is late and cold and they should sleep. If everything is good, they should reach Prizren is two days and he will leave Jaskier there for winter. He turns to his companion, who lies in his sleeping bag huddled up. Jaskier still does not sleep. Geraly sighs and drags his bag to Jaskier’s, settling between the bard and the forest. Jaskier smiles at him a bit and turns to the fire, a habit born from the knowledge that Geralt does not like being an object of scrutiny. What Jaskier does not know is that Geralt would not object Jaskier’s attention, Jaskier is an exception of all his rules. But Geralt is silent and the bard keeps respecting his borders as if the witchers ever have been entitled to such thing at all.

On the other hand, maybe this is just a poor excuse which Geralt made up and it is simply unnerving to fall asleep under the unnatural yellow lanterns.

“Did you understand in the end who were they?” Jaskier asks him in a hushed tone.

“No. Did not care”

“And how many?”

It is a good question, he thinks absentmindedly. “Three”

“Did you kill all of them?”

“Yes. Shut up and go to sleep”

Geralt moves a bit closer and shuts his own eyes, not intending to continue the conversation. This close Jaskier’s hair gently touch his face, it would take nothing to nuzzle into it. Geralt hates nights like that, when he is forced to witness what he can never have, breathing it but not allowed to touch. His hands itch to hold, to feel the solidness of the body in front of him. His body craves to go even closer, curl around like a shell protecting something precious. In his dreams he would bury his face into the silky hair and refuse to breath anything else except of the cedar. He would be content to lie like that in the quite center of nothingness until everything around them crumbles and forever after that. In his hideous fantasies Jaskier turns to face him and looks softly into his unhuman eyes, he would run his clever fingers upon his gnarled features and roam his chapped lips. He would smile and press their foreheads together and Geralt would stare into the blue oceans afraid to blink.

Jaskier considers him his friend, he trusts him, he smiles at him and even touches him occasionally. Those small soft touches, knowing Geralt’s aversion to tactility and not knowing how the witcher collects every contact of his hands. What he would think if he knew what runs through Geralt’s head? Geralt has never understood the bard, he has known his face and body, smell and voice but never understood. Recently he has also stopped understanding himself. He fails to distinguish those things which burns inside him every time he catches the blue eyes. Is it friendship? Tenderness? Love? Infatuation? Appreciation? No, it couldn’t be, he has never known those things and he would never be able to recognize them even if it were one of them. Does the colorblind know the color of red? It must be an animal in him, the whirl of his mutagens reacting pathetically to the only creature who touches him with gentle hand. Geralt sinks into the bogs of his thoughts eventually falling into the dreamless slumber.

He wakes up early and finds them a rabbit to eat. By the time when he comes to the camp Jaskier is still sleeping. It is a third week without a roof above their heads and it takes its toll on the bard. The meat is almost ready when Jaskier finally wakes, he looks a bit pale and Geralt instinctively takes a deep breath. Cedar, sweet, earth and something else what he can’t decipher. Like withered leaves, like ones laying already on the ground.

“Gawds I’ve just smelled the food and could not sleep anymore...” Jaskier stretches and yawns.

“By the way, morning, Geralt, how was your sleep on this comfy ground?”

“I slept. How is your leg?”

“Leg…Oh! I have even forgotten about it, the balm is some miracle indeed, feels like new” Geralt looks at him skeptically but the bard does not look or smell like pain, so it should be alright.

Geralt hands Jaskier his part of the meal, which is absolutely unintentionally a bit larger than his. He is so hungry that he devours it in a minute, but when he looks up, he sees that Jaskier has barely made a bite:

“What’s wrong? You barely ate it” Maybe undercooked the meat…?

“No! I mean, it is perfect, I just kinda not feel hungry”

“We did not eat a shit yesterday and you are not hungry?”

“Yes? I mean a stressful day and all”. Jaskier does not look convincing but Geralt decides to drop the subject.

Eventually they hit the road, it is a dull journey, nothing changes around them, it is the same dark forest and the same muddy road, even the sky does not change a lot, setting for simple heavy grey. Jaskier who always has something to say is silent and to his unsatisfaction Geralt finds this quietness unsetting. He would not even object to a song, or just one of the bard’s monologues or even the pointless strumming. Just a bit of his presence. Of course, he would not ask to—

“Geralt… wait...”

Jaskier’s voice is hoarse and…far? The witcher turns his head and finds the bard standing several meters from him. He tries to make several steps as his legs fail and Geralt is not fast enough to catch him.

“Jaskier! Jaskier…what…” Geralt hoists him on his feet steading him. Jaskier’s breath is a hissy and raucous sound, as if he ran for a mile, he can barely stand on his legs, leaning on the witcher heavily. Geralt seats them both on the dirty grass not moving his hand from the bard’s waist and gently lifts his face.

“Fuck”

The whites of Jaskier’s blue eyes are pink, like the myriads of small blood vessels fracture one by one. And the smell – Geralt smells metallics and again this strange stench of withered leaves, which this close is not withered leaves at all. It is something what Geralt does not recognize. Ice starts to prickle on Geralt’s neck.

“Sorry…probably should have eaten properly… just dizzy a bit…Geralt, Geralt? Why are you starin…?” Jaskier slowly puts his hand to his mouth and looks at it, his confused eyes filling with fear. There are bloody blotches on his palm, his gums are bleeding.

Geralt hoists him on the Roach in front of himself and Jaskier’s body leans on him its full weight, his clammy hair touch his cheek, his eyes dropping closed. It is a parody of the embrace, like the fate gives Geralt a taste of what he oh so wanted, but in a deviant, sick way, the only way he deserves. Geralt presses to him closer and puts the spurs to the Roach, he has a feeling that they do not have two days anymore.

By the dusk they have covered a half of their way, but Roach barely drags her legs. Jaskier looks to be asleep, Geralt gently lowers him on the sleeping bag. Dancing glow of the fire colors the bard’s pale face and he looks like something from those ancient stories, kiss him and he will wake up.

“Jaskier” Geralt gently touches his shoulder “Jaskier, wake up”

Geralt puts a bit more force until Jaskier slowly opens his eyes with a hoarse inhale. His whites went completely red threatening to drown the blue. Geralt eases the sticky hair from his burning forehand. Infection? Pneumonia? But his eyes—

“Gerlt...where…” the red eyes looking for something past him like not seeing Gerlat at all.

Geralt puts a gentle hand on his check “I am here, Jas, I am right here. We are on the way to the healer…here you should drink a bit”

He maneuvers Jaskier’s head to lean on his calf and brings a wineskin to his lips. The bard appears to have strength only for a one pitiful gulp, leaving everything else trickling down his chin and neck. Geralt wipes the water from his face, his touches probably make it only worse, only pain him further, but Geralt is afraid to let him go. But what can he do? Their supplies of potions ended a week ago and the only ones he has will simply kill Jaskier off. If only he left Jaskier in the town or at least decided to go another way, the bard would have been alright. Probably angry with him, but alright.

_Not dying._

This thought makes his insides crawl, his instincts shout to protect, to do _something you useless piece of_ —only to crush at the total helplessness of the situation. He must give the Roach at least some time before going again and praying that they will be fast enough.

Jaskier seems to fall off again. Geralt gently moves his head from his calf onto the poor resemblance of the pillow.

“Head hurts...and kinda cold…”

Geralt does not care to unroll his bag, simply settling on the cold ground, pressing his body to Jaskier’s side. He wants to get closer, to curl around him, to share the heat, to give it all completely and take that fucking thing to his body instead. Geralt’s eyes travel from Jaskier’s noble features to his neck when he notes something which makes him rise on his elbow and look closer. Something which looks like red wines go up Jaskier’s neck. He reaches with his hands when Jaskier’s eyes fly open to stare unseeing somewhere above.

The image of the man on the road and his dead stare flashes before Geralt’s eyes nearly making him flinch.

“Jaskier, Jask. It is me, I am not gonna hurt you I swear, I just need to take a closer look”.

“Geralt…”

“Yeah, it is me” He draws the chemise from his pants and racks it above, revealing Jaskier’s chest. Red lines going from below and up look like affluxes. Geralt pulls the chemise back and looks lower at his bandaged thigh finding the wound beneath the linen dark red, bordering with black.

Geralt thinks of his own potions and black lines and something akin to dread raises among the muted ocean of fear and worry, if it has something to do with his potions it is a miracle that Jaskier is still breathing.

“Geralt…” Jaskier tries to focus on him, gaze blindly searching.

“I am here, Jask. I am here”. He has never been taught how to care or sooth, or even how to say farewell properly. He knows so little of that, those pieces of humanity and gentleness Jaskier showed him hoping to draw something human from the beast he is.

Geralt gingerly takes the bard’s feverish hand in his and squeezes it.

“Jaskier, I am here. You’re gonna be fine”

“Am I dying?”

“No”

“...feels like that...”

Geralt craves to hold him, but it will only hurt, so he squeezes his hand and brings it to his face, breathing him in trying to catch the cedar among the rotting grass.

“No, I swear to you”

“R…ly?”

“Yes, you need to rest”.

Jaskier goes silent and Geralt can’t say if he sleeps or just loses his conscious. He sits near and concentrates on his pulse and heartbeat, counting it like the monks count their beads, trying desperately to believe his own words.

When he hears Jaskier saying something, he realizes that in some moment he closed his eyes and must have drifted off. The fire has nearly died off and little snowflakes descend on the ground.

“Jask?”

“What was my best song, Geralt?” Jaskier asks it casually, like they are in one of those smelly inns on the creaky bed and Jaskier has just come back from the performance.

_as if Jaskier is not dying_

The bard’s eyes slowly sweep from the sky to Geralt’s face, fully focused for the first time since the morning.

_...Was?_ Geralt has no fucking clue—

“The one you have yet to write. You will play it to me and I will listen”

The corner of Jaskier’s lips twitches “You just don’t know any— “

“The one about the path which no one dared to walk” Geralt reaches cautiously for his shoulder, the fever seems to have broken...“You do not play it often”

“No one asks me to play it”

“I will. I will ask you to play it”

Jaskier looks at him for a moment, smiles sadly and closes his eyes.

In the silence which falls between them Geralt’s senses cling back onto Jaskier’s heartbeat. He rearranges the coverings of sleeping bag a bit, pulling it above the bard’s shoulders. Geralt fiddles with it longer than necessary, like it is suddenly so important for the rough fabric to be without a crease. And even when it is done, he does not remove his hand, something inside him screams wordlessly not to let go.

He seats like that for a while with the hand on Jaskier’s shoulder above the coverings, thinking of nothing. The last of the snowflakes reach the ground and the fire died off. Jaskier’s breath and heartbeat go weaker and Geralt feels too far away from him.

He hesitates for a moment before curling next to Jaskier, achingly slow wrapping his hand around Jaskier’s chest, like bard is something fragile, as if Geralt’s hand can be too heavy for the bard to breath beneath it.

Just a bit closer and his forehand touches Jaskier’s warm temple, like that he can hear Jaskier’s pulse better and catch the still present cedar whispers. Like that he can allow himself to rest.

The first thing which greets Geralt when he wakes up a few hours later is a silence. No wind, no birds, nothing.

“Jask?” he slides his hand to the bard’s shoulder and shuffles him a bit.

Jaskier lies silently next to him, he shuffles harder.

“Jaskier? Jaskier!”

He does not move.

“No.. _._! _”_

He frantically puts the trembling fingers on his warm neck and prays for something other than complete stillness.

A second, two… Geralt wants to howl.

He has always considered himself a broken thing, _ruined._ He feels like the ruins inside him crumble to dust leaving nothing.

Repeating his name until it morphs into something wet and hoarse, Geralt cradles Jaskier’s form impossibly closer. Like an animal he nuzzles his hair, his temples, his forehead, he wants to memorize him, his features, his smell, to let him live in his memory like Renfri does. To welcome him when he closes his eyes and to sing to him when the world throws at him curses and stones.

He dares to press his lips to Jaskier’s forehand, brushing his soft hair back. He is soft and warm under his lips and Geralt kisses lower, his eyelid, his cheek. For a second he looks at his lips, but they are not…

_they were not_..

Instead he tucks his wet face to Jaskier’s neck and breathes in, wanting to feel those cedar groves again, but it is the same rotting grass and metallic stench of blood.

He strangely does not smell of decay and he still warm, so may be…

Geralt brings his fingers to his neck again and stops breathing.

_Please, please, anything, I’ll do anything please…_

A second passes, two… and he feels it, it is barely there and so weak, but still present.

They need to go fast. Geralt packs their belongings and double checks Jaskier’s lute, moves the bard’s form in front of himself holding him with one hand. He slaps the spurs to Roach, who seem to understand the urgency and gallops ahead.

Even with Roach rested and fed it takes them a day to come to Prizren and it is at dusk when they finally make it to their destination. The closer they go the more distinctive is the smell of something rotting, as they ride closer even Roach sniffs at the stench. Finally, Geralt sees the source and some part of him is satisfied that Jaskier does not see it. Along the pavement leading to the main gates drag lines of poles and cages, some of them old, some new. Geralt’s gaze catches half-rotten disfigured bodies and bones. They ride along the cage, Geralt catches something moving inside it and quickly averts his gaze. It’s been long since he has visited those places and he can’t recall anything like that, something has changed indeed.

Prizren is circled by the remarkably good walls, the baron’s castle looms on the hill to the west. As they come closer to the gates Geralt dismounts them and picks Jaskier up. Even with the hood pulled on his face his swords speak clearly of what he is.

The guards which go towards him are clad in black. As he nears they seem to understand what stands in front of them and put their hands on sword hilts.

“You are not welcome inside, beast. But you are always welcome — “ the guard speaks with a snort pointing on the nearest poles “—outside”. Geralt hears the others sneer and spit.

He so wishes Jaskier to be near him right now, to charm his way, but the bard is dead weight on his hands and he needs to do that for him, he needs not to fail him at least once.

“My fr— “ Geralt stammers, it is not for the bastards to know.

“I am here only to see a healer. He is dying, please let us in. He is a human like you”.

_So not fucking like you_

He glances at Jaskier’s wrapped form and back at the guards “You can take me if you want, just let me bring him to a healer, that’s all I ask”

“Murderer”

“he probably tormented him”

“just an excuse”

Geralt hears the guards whisper and tightens his hands on the bard’s form. “He is running of time, please let me bring him to a healer”

“Let it in, it says! Our fields rot because of your kind and you ask us to let you in?? You kill some poor man and dare to bring his corpse here to try to lie your way inside? Bug off, beast, or we put you on fire!” The captain unleashes his sword and point with it at his direction. Somewhere closer to the gates he hears the bowstring being pulled.

He does not care for the insults and threats, he’s heard enough of them, but the implication that he could harm Jaskier makes his blood boil. He wants _he can_ slaughter them and be don, instead he cradles bard closer and looks captain in the eyes.

“If you are not letting me in, at least bring him to a healer. Please.” Geralt gently puts Jaskier on the pavement and slowly removes his hands. It hurts to let him go but he runs out of his options. They have nowhere to go and if it gives him at least a small chance…

_“…_ what the fuck the freak is doing”

”…but what if the man still alive?”

”…it is some evil trick, it must be...”

“Your order, Sir! We will impale the monster on the longest stick!”

“Shut up!” The captain roars at the guards and they fall silent.

Geralt looks at him with what he can hope is his most unthreatening face. The captain is a man in his fifties, broad and tall, his face is covered in scars. Geralt thinks that if they fought, he would be a worthy opponent. He stares at Jaskier’s form and at Geralt kneeling near him and something fleets in his eyes.

He comes closer and lowers his voice.

“I am not letting you inside, beast, only over my dead body. I buried my wife, my sons –” he looks at Jaskier heavily “– and I am not gonna bury my daughter just because of the curse your kind brings. To the west from here lives an old hag, try her and leave us in peace.”

He turns away not turning back and shouts to close the gates. The guards continue to sneer and shout something but Geralt does not care to listen, he wasted enough time here.

When Geralt finally sees the place, he starts to question the old guard’s words. The sturdy stone house with a barn and many crates in the yard looks anything but a wooden shack he expected. The witch whose house has a paved road to the lord’s castle just further the road? He definitely misses something about this place, but it is not like he has time to contemplate.

Geralt dismounts and marches to the door, Jaskier is like a rag on his shoulder.

He knocks at the massive door and for a moment hears nothing but silence. Angry he hits the door one more time, when finally he hears steps on the other side.

The door is opened by the lank woman with sleek dark hair.

“Who the hell...?” she stops in her tracks.

“I need your help, please” If she refuses to help, they are doomed.

She squints unpleasantly and examines them for a second. Her pale eyes express nothing except for irritation, but in a moment she turns inside the house, neither inviting nor preventing.

The first thing that hits Geralt is a smell, something wet and chemical, it somehow reminds him of the understructures deep under one northern keep.

“And…what kind of help do you need from me, White Wolf?...or Butcher is more common for you?”

Geralt stops at the table and looks at her, so she knows.

“Don’t be so shocked. Your white mane, an easy guess”. The witch crosses her hands and leans on the wall.

In whitish light of the magical lantern she looks sinister, Geralt can’t even say how old is she, between 30-s and 60-s, she could be anything, Geralt would not trust her an inch, but what choice does he have?

He gently deposits Jaskier on the large wooden table in the center of the hall, the bard seems even paler, the red lines which crawled up his chest reached his face and started to darken. Geralt wills down the suffocating despair.

“My companion is ill, help him and I will pay you”

“And why do you think I can assist you?”

“Got some references from the guards”

“Told you the tales about old hag living in the forest?”

“Told me that you can help”

“You of all creatures must know the worth of nonsense people say” the corner of her mouth twitches and she comes closer. It occurs to him that she is not afraid of him, not afraid at all.

“Just say if you can help him”

The woman turns to table and tilts her head. She does not touch Jaskier, and Geralt is somehow glad for it, does not cast any spells, she just looks at the darkening lines and smirks. Geralt could swear she sees something familiar.

“You know what is this?”

“Maybe I do.”

“And what is it?”

“How will it help you, if you knew what is it?”

They waste their time.

“Can you help him?”

She tilts her head again and Geralt unwillingly notices the receding hairline, nebulous pupils and short reddish nails, something he’s seen on people working with dangerous things.

“Theoretically. You came here on time, witcher. He has about a day left, after that he will be good for vivisection only”, the chuckle which follows somehow tells that the concept is not new to her.

“However, it will cost you, witcher”

“What do you need?”

“Oh don’t worry I am not going to ask much of you, no heroic deeds required. Simple times, simple needs…I need money, witcher. Money for the ingredients, money for my work and my disturbed sleep. Money will do.”

Maybe he could find some fast contracts here…if only guards let him in…

“How much?”

“It is five thousand crowns…not much for his life?”

It is more than he has earned for the whole year, may be even more than he and Jaskier have earned together. It is impossible.

“Maybe I can bring you your ingredients instead?”

“No need, I have enough of them, but each is on account”

“May be something else you need?... Someone?” he cautiously adds. “Dead or alive”

“I have everything I need, witcher. Baron de Guader cares well about his vassals”

“Listen, I do not have such sum. But I swear I will pay it all later, just help him, please.”

She laughs “Later, you say! You know nothing of later, neither of my later nor yours. You’ve heard my price, if you don’t agree, feel free to find more beneficial bargain”

“You know fucking well that there are no other bargains here!” Geralt roars at her, not caring how he must look like in the moment. He thinks about just reaching for his sword, even if it makes him a butcher and beast and freak whose place is in a cage. If it helps Jaskier, he can live with that.

She does not even flinch.

“I know what you are thinking, witcher. Kill me and dig a grave for him tomorrow. You know that I am not afraid of you, you know it because you can smell it.”

She steps closer at him, smirking “Do I reek of fear, witcher?”

She does not, not even a whisper.

“Where I can get such sum in a fucking night?

“Is it really my problem?” she turns and goes away to the window, leaving Geralt standing at the table.

Geralt thinks that she won’t answer when she quietly adds “Maybe you shall visit the baron and…offer your services to him”.

Does he really have a choice after all?

“I will return”

He glances one more time at Jaskier’s form and turns to the door.

The baron’s bulwark looks grim, heavy stones and thick metal bars. Geralt notes the complicated light system on the towers which reminds him of pictures in the books of the old age. It’s been a while since he has seen such well-kept citadels, the place looks ready for war. He approaches the gates when he hears the twang of bows, though no archers to be seen. Geralt wonders if every and each traveler faces the same hospitality here, or it is just him.

He is sick of diplomatics so he simply removes his cape, letting them take him in for what he is.

“I am looking for a contract. The— “.he does not even asked for her name” —witch told me your lord may require my services.”

The guards are surprisingly taciturn, no curses, no insults, their beavers are up and he can’t even look at their faces. It makes Geralt feel on alert, the whole castle looks more like a prison that anything.

They wait in observing silence while one of the wards goes somewhere. Finally, he returns and motions to follow.

He is given the escort of six heavily cladded man with torches, they circle him, but do not come too close. Unconsciously Geralt thinks that he would be able to handle them, probably, but his chances to leave this place in one piece would be low. Anyway, he is not here for a fight.

Together they go through the courtyard and corridors with low ceilings and Geralt feels observed, like someone keeps an eye on his every move, a prison indeed.

Finally, they reach some chamber with tapestries, tables and chairs. Must be a dining hall or something, but it is late already and there only a few people there, among them there is one clad in red robes.

The ward ahead of them makes a motion to stop. “The witcher wanted to speak to his majesty Baron de Guader”

The man in the red robes comes closer. He looks old and tired, like witchers is the last thing he wants to deal with this evening. He measures him from top to toe, as if estimating his worth and eventually finds him somewhat satisfying.

“So, to what to I own such pleasure, witcher?”

“I am looking for a contract”

“It has been long since we needed services of your kind here. My men are good enough to deal with monsters without approaching other monsters”

He needs that contract, he can’t fuck up.

“I’ve been told by… _should have fucking asked for her name_...the sorceress that you have a contract for me”

Baron’s eyes look at him mockingly “You could see all sorceresses who graced my land just outside the city’s wall. Did you speak with one of them?”

Everyone around him snicker.

“I speak of the lady who lives down the road from here”

The baron averts his eyes and scoffs “Ah Elżbiet… you must speak with my son then, I am too old to play those games.”

He turns to the guard “Go fetch Pietro, he has some guests”

Pietro, he killed someone with such name yesterday.

The guard comes back with a man, who is in his early 30-s, dark hair and neat build, and like his guards and Geralt himself he prefers black. The baron must have a lot of free gold to buy all those overly expensive rags, Jaskier would call them dull. Unwillingly he compares Jaskier and the baron’s son, they are of the same age and both noble after all. But where Jaskier reminds Geralt of summer and spring and sun and everything warm and pleasant and loud, the man in front of him is ice. Those lands will receive a harsh ruler one day.

“You wanted to see me, father?”

“Pietro, your Elżbiet suggested that we have some contract for the witcher. I don’ care what it is all about, but here he is.”

Pietro’s eyes take Geralt in “Of course, father. I will sort it out”, he bows his head and turns to Geralt.

“Follow me, witcher”

In a few minutes Geralt finds himself in another room with the same tapestries and tables. Pietro flops himself on one of them and takes a sip from his goblet. There are other men in the room, not counting two guards at the doors. It looks like they amused themselves with cards and wine, but now they have something much more interesting. The room smells of alcohol and grilled meat and Geralt recalls their non-existent supplies and bare fields, it has been days since he ate something proper.

He catches himself staring at the goblet when he hears a chuckle.

“What, White Wolf, fancy some wine?”

So, he knows who is in front of him. Before Geralt can muster an answer, Pietro is near him holding out a goblet.

He is fast, notices Geralt, fast and agile.

“Relax, it is not a poison, I am just being hospitable”

Geralt inhales and it is wine indeed. Pietro still stands close to him, smirking. His sharp grey eyes burn with something unkind. There is no fear in him, he smells like wine and leather and something foresty like… withered grass? No, the smell is too weak, Geralt can’t tell.

Pietro looks at him expectantly, as Geralt makes a gulp. After two days of starvation the wine tastes heavenly.

“So, what brought you to my lands, Geralt of Rivia?”

“I am looking for a contract, the…witch told me that you have work for me”

Pietro feigns wistfulness “Did not she clarify what kind of work, because you know we have no monsters to kill”

“But sometimes they come to visit us on their own!” sneers one of the men at the table. Geralt feels their disdainful gases, but he does not care.

“I think we have some misunderstanding here, witcher. Tell me what you really are here for?” Pietro takes a sip from his goblet and puts in onto the table. The bastard knows perfectly what he is here for. Geralt has never asked people let alone nobles for anything, but for Jaskier he would beg.

“I need money to pay your witch for a service”

“Elżbiet? Oh I bet the sum must be tremendous”

“It is”

“There must be some gaps in your training, you speak in riddles, witcher”

“It is five thousand crowns, I need it as soon as possible”

“Elżbiet is…skillful, what kind of service you require of her?”

The words leave Geralt’s mouth sooner than he can react.

“It is not a business of yours.” Jaskier will have nothing to do with those people, not even in words.

“Rude” concludes Pietro. “Still, I think we should help our guest, what do you think, gentlemen?” he turns to the men seating sluggishly at the table.

“Five thousand crowns, fucking audacious!”

“Those are your bloody money, Pietro!”

“What kind of contract can there ever be for five thousand coins? Slaughter a fucking army? Suck a dragon’s cock?!”

The dangerous glint of Pietro’s eyes burns into Geralt’s.

“I might have a contract for you, witcher. Rather easy, I would say” he silently stands up “As you must probably notice, I care about the safety of my people. It is my responsibility to protect them”.

Even though Geralt is sure that Pietro is human, there is something bluntly predatory about him.

“To protect people your people effectively, you need to know your enemies. That is how they write in those books on tactics, don’t they?”

“You, witchers, are extraordinary creatures, some heretics say that men were once beasts, but you are beasts made of men. I know much about you, how you function, your anatomy... your little tricks. In many ways thanks to our mutual friend Elżbiet, an outstanding alchemist. Sooner or later we will end your kind, Geralt of Rivia. There is no place for you in this world”

Geralt looks him in the eyes and sees strange confidence there, the baron’s son does not speak out of hatred, disgust or fear, he says it calmly like some damn well-known fact.

“But for today we both are alive, and I want to indulge a little” The smirks returns to his face “My friends are in a sore mood, whitcher, and I am bored too. Keep us a nice company for tonight and satisfy my curiosity and you shall receive the payment you need”.

“What you will have me to do?”

The moment the question leaves his mouth he knows the answer perfectly well. Disgust and anger churn in his chest, the whole shit was his fault and it is his to handle. It is not even the worst it could have been, and the choice between his…preferences and Jaskier’s life is not a choice at all.

“What we want, witcher. We will do what we want” in a moment Pietro adds with a sharp knowing smile “Don’t worry, nothing that you can’t handle, we are civilized people after all”

He can handle much it is true and for Jaskier? Is there anything what he would not handle for him? Geralt lifts his eyes and answers impassively, like he would if he negotiated a contract for a pack of nekkers.

“I agree but with one term, you send her money right now and she receives it”

“It is feasible, witcher” answers Pietro.

He gives an order to the guard, as man hurries out of the room, he handles Geralt another goblet, which he drinks under the oiled whispers and sneers of Pietro’s friends. They preen at him and he hears some pieces of their drunk barking. Geralt has lived a long life and got used to be the center of unwanted scrutiny, it absolutely does not hurt somewhere deep inside his guts. He concentrates on the floor ornaments instead, follows their curves with his eyes. Geralt has been so tired lately, he just wants to be done and leave this place, to comb Roach’s mane and see his brothers. But most of all he wants to hear Jaskier singing to him again.

“Witcher, tell’s, is it truth that you can’t feel a shit?” a mocking voice cuts into his musings “I mean you visit the bordel, put your cock in and what?”

He does not care to answer, he did not promise them conversations after all.

“Wait a bit and you will discover it yourself!” answers him another voice

“Witcher, better tell us is it a real thing that each time you get a dick you are as good as new”

“Wait a bit and discover, fucker!”

“Bet you have a nice mouth witcher…”

“…with those canines? He will bite your useless dong off!” the barking laugh which follows the room is too loud for his ears.

Geralt just stares at the grounds and counts berries painted on the rough tiles.

Unwillingly he hears someone asking “By the way speaking about cocksucking, Pietro, what happened to that guy, forgot his name...the son of the leather merchant?”

Geralt stops counting.

“An incident on the hunt, so to say”

There is a smile in Pietro’s words.

It continues like that until Geralt hears fast steps behind the door and in a moment the guard announces himself.

“My lord, as you have ordered, lady Elżbiet received the payment.” The guard turns to Geralt “She also said to tell you that the bird will sing again, witcher, whatever it could mean”

The White Wolf and Jaskier’s songs, the bright doublet and callouses from strings, she guessed from the first glance. For the first time in those two days he feels a drop of relief, he has not failed him, has not he?

“So, everything is settled, witcher, just as I promised” Pietro’s mocking voice pierces the silence. “Now your part of the contract”

Geralt stands up and stares at his dark eyes.

“You are clever but still…if something unwelcome happens here, she will know in a second, and your bird will never sing, witcher. Are we clear on that?”

“We are”

Pietro grins at him coldly.

“Well, then. Let’s not waste our time. Strip.”

In the complete silence of the room Geralt drops his swords and cloak, his back immediately feels bare and he is so very aware of the two guards at the doors. He drops his pauldrons, gloves and armor, his hands hovering in a moment over the button of his shirt. It should not be that hard after all, it is not like they can say something new, it is not like their opinion matters. Maybe it is the bright light of the room, which highlights his scarred limbs, or that fact that it painfully reminds him of those painful examinations when he was a boy. Whatever it is, Geralt suppresses that churning feeling and unbuttons his shirt.

“You’ve got a rough life, don’t you, princess?”

“Must pay whores a double!”

Geralt kicks his boots and stands on the cold stones with his bare feet, unbuckling his belt. He does it efficiently, the faster they are done, the better. For a second he wonders what Jaskier would say if he saw him like that, standing naked in front of the flock of goatish men ready to be bred, following the orders of one cold-blooded bastard, instead of putting the sword through his chest. Jaskier would be disgusted, he would spit at his feet and go away and Geralt won’t see him again. And if Jaskier is alive, it is fine, Geralt can live with it.

Geralt drops the last garment on the floor fighting the instinct to curl into himself, to hide. He is all scars and paleness, a bit rawboned from the poor ration and lack of sleep, an instrument used too much and poorly repaired. To be used is his purpose after all, that is what they intend to do? There is nothing wrong to use something meant to be used.

“Never understood why they do not castrate them, you know? What’s a fucking purpose of all that?”

“They kinda do”

“Drink more and he will pass for that blond whore from the bordel, you know that one with pox and blond hair?”

It is nothing which he has not heard before, nothing which he won’t hear again, it is his life, as it was and as it will be.

“You follow orders well, witcher” Geralt somehow forgot about Pietro. The man’s sharp grey eyes follow the scars on his body and linger on the red arrow wound on his shoulder. Something flashes in in his gaze for a second.

“I have no desire in your body, witcher. Not in the way they do, at least. I have always wondered how this regeneration of yours work, how much time you need to heal a stab? Or broken leg? Or hole from the arrow?” he glances at Geralt’s shoulder. “I want to try something on you, and you will let me, as a part of our gentlemen contract of course” he ends with a smile.

“What do you want?”

“Is it truth that your reaction to dimeritium is bad?” Pietro goes to the tables and retrieves something which resembles cat-o-nine, metal gleams on its ends and Geralt knows what is it instantly.

“Face to the wall witcher” the bastard smirks and points on the far end of the hall.

“You are sick” Geralt throws at him and heads to the wall. It is not the first time he has been whipped and probably not the last. Angry peasants and citizens and his seniors at Kaer Morhen, in prison and on the market square, for fun, out of sheer hatred and fear, a superstition, a punishment, a demonstration. Most scars on his legs and hands were left by monsters, but his back is a map of human hatred.

“No, witcher, I am not. Remember your training, how they explained to you what works best against wyverns and ghouls. No difference here, just practical interest”.

Geralt hears him approaching, dimeritium’s suppressing aura crawls on his senses.

“Hands on the wall”

Geralt puts his palms on the stones, grasping at the old stones and closes his eyes. He remembers Jaskier’s weak raspy voice and his deathly pale face, how he thought for a moment that everything is over and prayed to every deity to _please do not take him away, please…_ It seems that someone heard his pleas and may be if he is good, his prayer will be granted—

He hears the swing and wills his body to stand still.

The first blow lands on his back, dimeritium claws tearing at his skin, preventing the healing. Geralt dugs his sharp canines into his lower lip and remains quiet. He won’t give him that satisfaction.

The second and the third fall on his burning back and he does not make a sound, there is metallic taste in his mouth and it smells of blood.

He loses count soon, his spine feels like it does not have a shred of skin on it, just naked raw meat and bones.

“Pietro, you are gonna kill him!”

Geralt opens his eyes and there are red drops on the floor’s ornaments. If he pays attention, he can feel something trickling down his legs. Geralt relaxes his fingers a bit and sees his nails bloody from how hard he clutched the stones.

“You don’t give him enough credit. They were designed to endure like a buckler is made to endure the blows. I will flay him to the bones and he will endure”

He lands another blow, more wicked and violent, which scratches Geralt’s ribs, and another one, another one.

The strikes are getting more savage, he aims where it hurts most — at his sides, shoulders and thighs, flaying Geralt’s skin, the burning aura of dimeritium becomes unbearable. Like that small remark got Pietro angrier, like he has not expected that someone could even care if he kills Geralt or not. Geralt’s bloody nails dig into the stones clutching and tearing small bits from the old wall. He thinks he is going to pass out—

“..cut it off! You promised him for our pleasure, not yours alone!”

“…he’s right, Pietro, not fun if he is dead.” The muffled voices penetrate the nauseous buzz in his ears and Geralt’s own erratic breathing as the strikes stop.

“Alright, that will do. Relax a bit, witcher” Pietro tells him a bit breathless as if he did not flay his whole back raw “The evening’s just begun”

As Geralt hears the bastard’s retreating steps and weakening aura of dimeritium he allows himself to lower on the floor, carefully leaning on the cold stones with his side. Damp hair obscure his face and he manages a glance at the guards standing at the door. There is something between disgust and disturbance on their faces mixed with a tiny bit of pity. He wonders if they often witness something like that in that hall.

Geralt wipes his mouth with the hand and it comes bloody, he must have bitten his lip through. For a second he hopes that they are too disgusted by the show and his bloody limbs and just tell him to fuck off. But Pietro’s voice tells him otherwise.

“So the prelude is over. Gentlemen, lets not be shy.” He laughs a bit looking at the fat guy “I recall you said something about socksucking, Marek?”

Pietro turns to Geralt with a little smirk “Go on, witcher, show us what you can”

Geralt stumbles on his feet and looks at the fat red haired guy sitting sluggishly on the bench. The big man stares at him expectantly with a slight smirk, palming his crotch. Somehow it feels even worse than the whip, pain is a frequent quest in his life, but the shame?

“Remember our agreement, Geralt of Rivia. I fulfilled my part, now your turn. Do as the man desires, or our little contract will be broken”.

Pietro’s last phrase makes him move, he shuts out humiliation and disgust and just acts. Geralt comes closer and drops to his knees mechanically reaching for the man’s buckle, the stench of booze and weeks old sweat fills his senses.

The man is on the bigger side, uncut and half hard, he takes him into the hand and puts the crown into his mouth gradually taking more. He moves mechanically on and off helping with his hand, not taking it completely. It has been ages since he’s done something like that, always preferring women, something softer and gentler. On some shameful nights he thought of doing it to Jaskier, laying caress and kisses on him just there. Jaskier would smile breathlessly and tangle his fingers in his hair, telling him how good he is, how Geralt is the best thing he’s ever had.

The man’s fully hard dick hits the back of his throat and Geralt withdraws to take a breath and goes back. He keeps his eyes closed, there is nothing to stare at after all, suddenly the large hand grabs his hair sharply tugging buck, forcing him to look above.

“You can do better than that princess” Man’s other hand slaps him across the face and digs his thumb on his bloody lower lip exposing his teeth.

“Swallow it, like a good dog you are” croons someone.

“Bet they do it often in that keep of theirs” mocks another voice.

“Do you suck each other off, witcher?”

The stinking with blood and booze room slowly fills with salty arousal, Geralt hears slapping sounds of someone jerking off.

The man tightens his fist in his hair “Open the fuck up” and shoves the fat dick inside hitting the back of his throat again “Swallow it”.

Geralt braces his hands and does that, allowing it further until his nose is shoved into reeking patch of hair. He stifles his gag reflex and ignores the nauseous stench, concentrating instead on the cold rough stones under his knees.

The man just holds him there, stuffing his throat full and there is no room to breathe. His lungs start to constrict and he needs to lift his head for a gulp of air, but the hand in his hair holds him tightly down, Geralt struggles a bit and it finally relents.

“He does not behave well”

He has two seconds when the fat man grabs his head with two hands and shoves it on his cock, assaulting his throat repeatedly until his jaws hurts and he can hardly breath between the rough slams.

“Needs to be trained better”

He feels another pair of hands on his body, scratching on his burning back and reaching for his flaccid cock. The rough palm circles him and tugs painfully, making him flinch.

“What? You don’t like it when someone’s nice to you, freak?”

The hand grips and twists in the mocking resemblance of pleasuring touch. The nails scratch him there and the sudden pain makes him gag, throat constricting painfully around the fat hardness inside it. Geralt hardly manages to keep his jaws from clenching, erratically lifting his head with a raspy wet cough.

Rough hands hardly give him a chance to catch his breath and tug him back fucking into his mouth. Several violent trusts and the bastard pulls away, coating his face and chest, the streaks of white get into his hair. Somehow, he feels even dirtier than after the messiest hunts.

“No bad for a such ugly mope”

“Fuck it is mine turn now, open up...”

He is shoved to another man, who does not waste time fisting his hair.

“Kiss it”

Geralt looks at him not quite understanding what—

The hand in his hair tightens “Kiss it fucking wretch”

Geralt puts his lips on the sticky head leaving the trails of seeds and spit between it and his lips.

“Tell me you want it”

_No._

The ringed hand slaps him hard, adding blood to the mess on his face.

“Say it”

Geralt does not.

“Pietro, should we inform Elżbiet that the contract is broken?...”

He sees Pietro standing from his seat and—

“No! I want it”

“Want what?”

Geralt has never been the one to talk.

“Your cock”

The slap is aimed to his lips “Speak with a fucking sentence, you animal!”

“I want your cock in my mouth”

“Don’t you know how to be polite?”

Geralt scowls showing his bloodied teeth “Please”

The man grins and fists his cock, slapping it to his lips and finally shoves in. Geralt relaxes his throat as far he can and just takes the brutal pace. At least the bastard does not want him to speak again.

The others stand around and grin at him, some reach to touch and twist, hands finding his back and digging into the wounds, going lower.

“Fat ass you have, witcher, is it also part of your mutations or what?”

Geralt feels someone’s big hands fondling his cheeks, slapping sharply, squeezing and finally spreading.

“Fuck...looks tight. What, no one was eager to fuck you properly?”

Shame flair hotly in his gut just to be met by some sinking feeling which has nothing to do with the bastards around him. It is not far from truth after all, it is not like anyone would want him this way, it is not like Geralt is able to trust someone enough to let them. May be only this one person who is now on the edge of life and death because of Geralt’s fails.

The man behind him grabs his ass and presses with a dry finger. It burns but it is nothing like the burn on his back, nevertheless his spine bows momently, flinching from the intrusion. Immediately the hands dig into his bloody back, scratching as a punishment.

“You don’t wanna do that nice way, fucking freak? This is all you get than!”

Geralt hears how the man spits and grabs his ass, spreading him. The blunt head nudges at his entrance, harsh fingers pull at his rim and the man pushes inside. It does not fit for the first time, but finally the bastard makes it and thrusts all the way in. Something is tearing inside him and even Geralt’s flayed spine does not overpower this sharp burning pain. The man does not give him a pause starting punishing rhythm and he chokes on the dick railing his throat.

“Fuck, man do that again, he likes it”

The man behind does, going to the route and almost fully back, pushing him forward with each thrust, making him take it even deeper.

“Fuck I am gonna cum into your mane” he hears someone as the loads ends in his matted hair.

Rough hands slap his behind skimming forward grabbing his cock and jerking him. Geralt’s body tightens on instinct, cramping on the relentless hardness inside. Soon the man’s thrusts become erratic, finally he shoves forcefully and comes with the low grunt, burning the sore insides. He pulls back and spreads Geralt’s cheeks catching the blood red rim with his thumbs, painfully stretching it wider.

“Look at that gape, fucking ruined you, dog”

Geralt feels that something trickles down his legs, must be the man’s spank and his blood. One goes away only to be replaced by another, shoving inside again. He loses their count, does not even lift his head when one fist in his hair is changed by another. The sharp tearing pain in his insides becomes dull ache and his throat feels used and full of sandpaper, all he smells and tastes is blood and come and booze. He simply lets them have it, falling somewhere deep and far from here, where there are no disgust or shame or even anger, just nothing. Like this he doubts that he even exists. Absentmindedly he notices that his knees bleed from the rough stones, must be soiling them with red.

Geralt fails to register when they pull away and he is shoved to stand. His numb legs cooperate badly and he is slow and stumbles a bit when he hears

“What, forgot how to move your legs, freak?”

and suddenly something heavy hits the side of his head making him to grab the bench for support. Sharp pain just above his temple and something hot and sticky on his face and for a second all he can see is red and black.

_Not eyes, not eyes…_

Geralt opens them and squints a bit, staring at glass shards scattered on the floor and several red drops falling down. A wine bottle? Not caring to wipe his face he heavily raises his head and looks at them directly for the first time, drinking their fear in a complete silence, he memorizes their features; he wants to butcher them and they feel it.

“You remember our terms, Geralt” Pietro croons from his back. “We expect you to follow them”

He scowls at man’s cold smirk, his unnatural canines on show.

“You scared my friends a bit here” he comes closer fumbling with something in his jacket’s pocket. Geralt’s dizzy senses are hit with _not again, not again_

The handcuffs glint in his palms as he comes close enough to touch.

“Your hands behind your back” he orders.

Speaking hurts and he nearly whispers “I did everything you told me, I will do is you tell me. You have no need of it”

“There are two reasons, witcher. The first is that it is the thing I wish and the second — I must protect my friends, and wounded beasts are quite a danger if you ask me”

He stops for a second and adds quietly as if only for Geralt to hear “Don’t you want to protect your pack, witcher? Wouldn’t you do anything to protect it?”

He is not the fucking pack, he is…Geralt can’t label him, not really. Jaskier is not his pack, not his friend, not his lover, not his at all. But the bastard is right, he will do anything.

He does not answer and Pietro smiles “Hands behind your back”

He does as said and feels the cold metal on his wrists. It does not burn, does not hurt him really, but being incapacitated like that is even worse.

_What if they decide that it has not been fun enough?_

“That’s it, go on”

The glass shards bite into his feet as he follows the pushing hands.

“Get’m on his back, yeah like that, greedy holes on display”

“Should’ve have done it on the fucking square, bet he likes the audience”

Hard wood and his own bound hands dig into his raw back making Geralt hiss. His instincts scream to keep his eyes open, but he really does not want to see, neither their sneering faces, no his own pale abused limbs. He opts to darkness but the punishing hands _twisting, slapping, pulling, probing_ make him to open his eyes again. It would be better if they just hit him harder, so he could pass out. But what is the pleasure in the rag doll? Maybe he is not capable to affection and tenderness and love, but pain and burn? That he feels and that is enough for them.

The hands pull his legs above to his chest as someone enters him with a dirty squelch starting to move. He is so fucked-torn open, that all he feels is a dull soreness.

“Fucked him to hell, not so tight as he’s been”

“Let’s see” the laughing voice is followed by rough hands, yanking his chest hair and scratching his nipples, causing him to squirm.

“That’s fucking better”

The man behind pulls out and comes to face “Open up, dog”

It is disgusting and even in whorehouses they refuse to—

Man slaps him hard “Open your filthy mouth, you mutant scum!”

Geralt tries to ignore the stench and the thoughts and anything else. The man goes for it fucking to his throat and shoving him until his head hangs from the edge of the table.

They go rounds on him switching and sneering and getting drunker, it is a fucking blur of rough hands and cocks and insults. They spit, they come, they fuck, gradually getting bored and somehow more violent. Some things are off-limits even with the whores, but not with him created to endure anything.

He jerks violently when he feels something going around his neck.

“Press harder, let’s me feel him squirmin..!”

They do it and for a moment he sees black, only to be jerked back. Strong hands retreat giving him a gulp of air and pressing again harder and longer making him trash against the cuffs. Retreating and repeating each time a bit longer and _and it is not enough, he can’t breath_

He nearly passes out.

“That is enough I think” Pietro’s voice is muffled over the rush in his ears.

The pressure on his neck is gone and he hoarsely catches his breath, lungs expanding and constricting. Pietro comes closer and pushes him to sit, freeing his hands.

“You can keep your word indeed. Maybe there is a bit more human in you, than they say. I have the last thing for you, Geralt or Rivia. It was a pleasurable evening for us, I would be a bad host if I let you go unsatisfied.”

Pietro comes closer and touches his shoulder, just above the arrow wound, another gloved hand sweeps below and grips his dick. Geralt expects pain, but Pietro is much more cruel. His grip is disgustingly gentle, same way you could pet your mare.

The gloved hand touches him slowly, knowingly and Geralt’s forsaken body responds. He remembers the forest, the sheer reason why he is here and he wishes that he would be whipped again.

“C’mon let’s imagine this is someone else, there is always someone, right? Even for you.”

He squeezes a bit, thumbing the crown. “Is it a girl? Some pretty gentle creature?”

Geralt grips the edge of the table and it cracks a bit.

“Or maybe it is man, so bright and sure and alluring?” Pietro’s right hand moves lower and blindly finds the arrow wound, digging his fingers lightly in, making Geralt hiss.

_You know nothing about it, nothing about him…_

Geralt wills his mind from Jaskier, cutting all thoughts about him and his smile and his smell, he bites the insides of his mouth, but Pietro’s hand does not stop and he is fully hard.

“Do they know what you wish of them? Do they allow you anything? Would it be gentle— “ gloved finger runs on the underside “— or rough”, the hand digs into his shoulder forcefully, causing Geralt to wince.

_Gentle or rough, I’d take it all…_

“Do you think…” Pietro’s voice lowers to whisper “he would want you, if he saw you right now? So responsive to my hand? Just imagine him entering this room and seeing you so used, stretched and dirty. And when he learns that you were a willing participant, Geralt?”

The idea of Jaskier seeing him like that.

… _not think about him_ —

_the bard standing in front of him speechless, gentle eyes filling with shock and then disgust_ —

— _stop thinking about him_ —

_Not a hero after all, not a good man, not man at all…_

Pietro’s hand jerks him roughly and Geralt is so close.

“Do you get yourself off thinking about his hands on your cock? You’d be so good for him, you will behave and be so docile”

_He would be he would be_

“Just like you are now”

His used muscles clench painfully and he comes with a mute hiss and squeezed eyes, dirtying his chest and the bastard’s black gloves, but the shrill of the orgasm does not win over the gnawing disgust.

Pietro releases him and smirks, discarding the black garments “Congratulations, you honored your contract well, wicther, hope you enjoyed.”

Geralt does not bother to answer, he finds his clothes and slowly puts them on. He feels like a shell, empty and most dirty and so tired. Guilt and rage dance beneath his skin but don’t go on the surface. He should be enraged and he probably is, but there is only emptiness and all-embracing exhaustion. Yes, they do not feel indeed.

Something drips down his legs, the heavy swords press on his spine, agitating the flayed flash, but he welcomes this familiar burden. Pulling his cloak over his head and forcing himself not to limp he goes to the door.

“Let me see you off, Geral of Rivia”

The fresh air smells like the best thing ever as they enter the courtyard, it is an early chilly morning and it would be dark, if not the guards’ cressets.

They come to the gates when Pietro breaks the silence.

“The next time we meet, witcher, I will end you for good”

Geralt turns and meets Pietro’s predatory smile with one of his own, tugging his torn lips into beasty scowl.

“Come and try”

Geralt turns and goes back to the hut, feeling Pietro’s eyes on his figure, but somehow he is sure that he is not followed. He sees Roach grazing where he left her

“Missed me, girl?” his voice is nearly non-existent. He simply takes her reigns and they go. In the darkness he spots the outlines of the well and, tugging the cloak around himself, comes closer. Cold water hits his throat in a painful relief, with trembling hands he dips a bit and brings it to his face, erratically rubbing the clammy skin. Jaskier won’t like seeing him that dirty.

_Do you think. he would want you?_

_And how many?_ — _Three_

_Pietro, I killed someone called Pietro today…_

He knew it, he fucking knew it, but it crashes upon him nevertheless, the name, the intentional slip of the pronoun, the fucking witch _and I know much about you_ and the lines on Jaskier’s pale skin. Suddenly his back hurts not enough. He wants to go back and slaughter, forget himself in the blind rage and put his swords through the bastard and everyone else there and hopefully be finished himself.

_No choice, there was no choice. Would not you do that for him again? This and worse, much worse. Was it not worth of his smile? Of his laugh? Of his love? Not even directed at you, but allowing you to bask in it nevertheless? He will leave you one day, willingly or not, but you asked for longer, for a bit longer, this is your longer._

His blood burns with the need to see Jaskier again, he craves to know that he is breathing, craves to feel something warm and real.

He goes down the road and sees the stone house.

_What if he is dead? What if she tried to heal him but failed? What if...?_

_I will bury him then._

Geralt will dug a grave with my own hands and lay Jaskier there alongside with his lute and those scraps of human which are left of him. And he will finally live up to their sneers.

He shoves the heavy door not caring to knock and sees Elżbiet’s surprised face.

“Where is he?” he rasps.

She points to the closed door and he goes there, turning the knob. The room is lit by the weak lantern and there on the bed there is Jaskier. Geralt stops breathing and waits.

One, Two...there is a beat and breath and Geralt closes his eyes.

_Thank you, thank you…_

He comes closer and drops to one knee, taking in, breathing in…the lines are gone and so the deadly paleness. Geralt extends his hand, wanting to touch his fingers, _to make sure that he is real_ but stops himself. Jaskier suffered enough and Geralt’s touch will taint him, Jaskier would not want to be pawed by such hands. Geralt thinks that he will be content just to sit here, at his bed, when Elżbiet appears in the doorway.

“He’ll be fine, witcher, don’t doubt my skill”

Geralt acknowledges her presence with silence.

“His body is exhausted, so if you want him safe, let him sleep”

He must move and get them away from here, even in the wild they will be safer but one look at Jaskier is enough to think better.

“I will wait until he wakes up and we will leave”

He smells dissatisfaction.

“He can sleep it off here, but you are not welcome. I hope you understand, witcher”

He does not want to leave Jaskier even for a second, the need to protect and look for him is nearly overwhelming. But she is waiting and he is too exhausted to argue. He stands up heavily and goes to the outside, finding a place at the shitty stables. Roach sniffs at his lying form and he stretches his arm petting her. Geralt mulls everything in his head and it is too much, he can’t find enough strength to be angry or to plan a revenge. Deal with it tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow when they will deal with it all. Geralt sleeps.

Something nudges at his arm and he squints his eyes against the daylight, Roach nudges him again as if questioning.

_Fuck just fucking fuck_

Geralt stands up edgily willing his joints to cooperate despite the soreness which seem to swallow him whole. His nearly runs into the house, ignoring the witch’s exclamation and finds the room empty.

“Where is he??!”

He reaches his sword and sharply turns to the woman who flinches at his roar.

“Geralt?”

There in the far side stands Jaskier, heavily bracing himself with one hand on the wall. Geralt unclenches his hand from the grip and finds himself staring.

“I just went…you know?” he laughs weekly.

Geralt covers the distance between them in a second, halting himself within arm’s reach. Jaskier is alive and there is his heartbeat, his breath, his slight smile and tired bluest eyes and he smells of chemicals but there are those wisps of cedar and there is nothing better in this world. His hands itch to crash the bard to his chest and nose his hairline, hold him warm and safe. Geralt does not do any of those things.

He sees as Jaskier’s smile falls from his face and feels a jab of guilt. Geralt is suddenly painfully aware of the soreness in his body, of how he must look and smell.

_how fucking dirty, dirty bloody beast_

“What happened?” Jaskier reaches for the side of his face, tracing the scars with trembling fingers, so close to his lips. He wants to nuzzle this hand, lick it, press it to his cheek.

“A contract” he says, removing the bard’s hand with his own, not letting it completely go.

Jaskier takes him in as something painful flashes in his glossy eyes.

_Just don’t ask me please, don’t ask, just fucking don’t…_

The bard is silent for a second and then Geralt finds himself hugged, Jaskier’s arms wrap around his middle, his forehand on Geralt’s shoulder. They do not do such things often, Geralt does not know why, may be because he craves it so much and it frightens him.

The bard exhales ruggedly and tightens his hands, unknowingly pressing on his spine and Geralt relishes on the dull echoes of pain, pain signifies the bard being alive. He slowly puts his arms around Jaskier, holding him awkwardly back, pressing his temple to the auburn hair. Through the open door he sees how snow starts its descend from the leady sky and for this precious moment there are no monsters and people, no hunger and plans for revenge, nothing but Jaskier’s heartbeat and his own, slow as if trying to catch up but never there and he is at peace.

_Longer, just a little bit longer…_


End file.
